


While you Sleep

by ConsultingHound



Series: While You Sleep [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But it turns out okay, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Rutting, Sherlock's a little creepy, With A Little Bit Of Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Sherlock often wondered why he was watching John sleep.' But can his secret stay hidden for long?</p>
            </blockquote>





	While you Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-warning: this is my first time writing anything remotely smutty and this hasn't been beta'd so all mistakes are my own. Also: Happy Series 3!

Sherlock often wondered why he was watching John sleep.

It had started relatively early on in their acquaintance with a nightmare.  Surprisingly it wasn’t John’s but Sherlock’s, a nightmare he hadn’t had since a child and just like any child would do Sherlock ran to the nearest adult.  This just so happened to be John.  His flatmate.  Upstairs.  Asleep. 

He remembered how he had paused outside the door, sweat cooling on his forehead and a post-fright sensibility returning to him.  What the hell was he doing?  What was he going to do, go and request to sleep in John’s bed for the night?  While he was internally chastising himself, his body, obviously fed up from the emotional trauma of the night, had already cracked open the door, done a preliminary check to see that John was still asleep and when Sherlock returned to the present moment it was to find himself stood in his flatmates bedroom staring directly at said sleeping flatmate. 

His first thought was that John slept funny.  Whereas Sherlock, when he deigned to succumb to mere mortal functions, liked to sleep curled up in a cocoon of blankets, in a veritable nest, John slept spread out, his left hand curled near his head, his right flung out, as if he was reaching out towards Sherlock, his body taking up as much space as possible.  Although he stuck by the notion that John was smaller than the average human male,(even if John attempted to dismiss it) he certainly knew how to spread out.  Also, his sheets were thrown off, cast out to tangle over his lower half.  Surely he would be cold if not for a habitual jumper.  He would have to turn the heating up. 

Sherlock paused at that.  That was almost- well it was sort of- well _domestic_.  Perish the thought. 

Without knowing what else to do now he was in the room, he’d slumped to the floor in-between the wardrobe and the door.  He’d sat there all night, until his breathing matched the pattern of John’s and as the sun began to rise, he’d slipped out and went to his own bedroom, with a strange sensation of peace.  He shuffled into the kitchen the next morning to John whistling while making his breakfast. 

“You seem awfully pleased this morning.”

“Hmm? Oh, just a good night’s sleep that’s all,” John had grinned.  However when he turned, he frowned.  “Sherlock, no offence but, well, you look like shit.”  In response Sherlock made a derisive noise and went to flop on the sofa.  When John went to go offer tea a few minutes later, it was, much to his fond amusement, to find a snoring detective.

***

_2 months later..._

He didn’t watch John every night of course (he wasn’t _trying_ to be purposefully creepy) but at times when he needed to clear his mind, John was a peaceful calm in the unrelenting storm of his mind.  He found it increasingly harder to sleep without John’s presence, pushing him into being riskier with his time, often only getting out the room on borrowed time.  When he refused the urge to go to the room however, he became even more irritable than normal, allowing the slightest thing to set him off into a rant or sulk.  The worried glances between Mrs Hudson and John only made things worse

Of course this had nothing to do with the funny feeling Sherlock got in his stomach every time John smiled at him, fond annoyance and genuine amazement both commonplace.  Nothing to do with the fact that every casual brush of contact between them sent Sherlock’s heart rate sprinting.  It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that, when John told him something, it somehow made its way into his mind palace without him realising so that, if he hadn’t eaten in 4 days, a little sign appeared in his mind with John’s handwriting, telling him to _go eat you bloody idiot_.  It had nothing to do with the fact that, for the first time, someone was willing to put up with the violin screeching and the body parts and the general chaos that surrounded him on a daily basis because he wanted to.  Because he saw the gunshots and the sulking and the imminent peril and chose to stay anyway.  _Enjoyed_ staying. 

No, absolutely nothing to do with that.  Absolutely nothing to do with the obvious fact that one Mr Sherlock Holmes was desperately and hopelessly in love with one Dr John Watson. 

Sherlock simply sat in his self-designated corner and watched. 

John would never want him anyway.  John wasn’t gay, as he was so fond of telling everyone and even though there hadn’t been any sign of a girlfriend for a while, that didn’t mean anything at all.  Did it?  Ugh, _what was wrong with him_? 

He shook his head and tried to concentrate on something else, anything else.

However tonight was different from the other nights.  Normally, John was a very quiet sleeper, the only sounds being the gentle _huff_ of his breathing.  The only noises he made were during the nightmares which, on occasion, reappeared.  At these times, Sherlock would make his way downstairs and begin playing his violin, a lullaby carefully constructed to soothe.  He would play until he the noises ceased and John was once again safe or John stumbled down the stairs and made his way to his chair.  Those nights, Sherlock played until the sun appeared and the city awoke, seemingly coaxed to listen to the tune. 

This night started as any other.  John muttered his “goodnight” in Sherlock’s general direction before dragging his feet upstairs.  Sherlock remained prone on the sofa for another hour or so before sneaking up the stairs.  Everything appeared normal, with John curled up facing away from him and after a while of blank staring, Sherlock felt his eyelids flutter closed.  Everything settled.Everything was quiet. 

Until John said Sherlock’s name. 

Sherlock stiffened and his eyes flew open.  He’d been caught.  This was it.  How the hell would he explain this?

However, as he opened his eyes, it became apparent that John was indeed, still asleep.  Sherlock relaxed once again, attempting to calm his heart rate. 

Then John whimpered again, rolling onto his back.  “ _Sherlock_.”

Interesting.  John was dreaming of him.  Sherlock shuffled slightly closer.

“John?”  Part of Sherlock wished to wake him.  A much louder part wished to let this dream continue. 

“ _Ughhh_ Sherlock,” John sighed, twisting in his bed, face turning towards Sherlock. 

Oh _.  Oh_. 

Sherlock felt heat flash through his body, concentrating in his stomach, his breathing becoming more laboured. 

“Yes John,” he uttered, placing his voice a pitch lower than normal, adding a gravely, purring edge to his tone. 

“Oh Sherlock,” John whimpered again, a hand trailing absently down his body, towards a growing bulge in his pyjama bottoms.  The sight made Sherlock’s lick his lips and drop a hand into his own pants. 

“John,” he gasped as he wrapped a hand around his quickly swelling cock and began stroking lightly.

“Oh god.  Sherlock,” John stuttered as he rocked upwards, fisting his cock in his own hand.  Sherlock began using harder, longer strokes, spreading his pre cum across his shaft. 

“ _John_.” There was a low, loud groan from somewhere and, much to his surprise, Sherlock realised it was himself.  

John’s eyelids fluttered open.  Sherlock froze, one hand down his pyjamas, the other supporting him up off the floor, sweat beginning to plaster his curls to his forehead, panting and wide-eyed.  John was looking directly at him, his own dark blue eyes heavy lidded. 

“Sher?” he mumbled, eyebrows knitting together. 

“John,” Sherlock replied, voice ragged.  The silence left behind hung in the air for a moment. 

John’s free hand stretched out towards Sherlock.  As soon as he was in reach, John tangled his hand in the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck and dragged him down for a sloppy kiss.  It wasn’t the best in the world, teeth clashing, noses bumping.  However, as soon as Sherlock tilted his head slightly more to the left and John regained more of his senses, the kiss deepened and grew heated.  John’s tongue swiped at Sherlock’s lips, demanding entrance and Sherlock groaned. 

Soon they were both panting in each other’s mouths and Sherlock climbed up onto the bed, straddling John’s hips 

Their erections brushed against each other and both groaned, Sherlock practically growling.  They rocked together, rutting, filling the room with heated breaths and the sounds of grunts and moans. 

Sherlock began kissing John’s jaw and neck, sucking at the hammering pulse point. 

“Sher- Sher- I’m gonna-“ John warned before he came with a shout.  Sherlock followed him not a second later with a groan, before flopping, spent, onto John. 

“John I-” Sherlock began but was interrupted with a kiss, much gentler than before.  A finger was placed on his lips. 

“Shhh, no talking.  Sleep now, talk later,” John grumbled and Sherlock chuckled.  Seeing as John had lost the ability to move more than strictly necessary, Sherlock went to grab a flannel, cleaning them both up.  He then paused, unsure to his next move.  Would John wish him to stay or should he leave now and avoid a possible awkward morning after situation?

In the end, John decided for him, pulling at his baggy t-shirt until he was back on the bed and attempting to arrange his long limbs in a satisfactory way without actually moving himself.  This involved some nudging and kicking and nestling.  Sherlock wrapped himself around John’s middle, tangling their legs and snuggling into John’s neck, drawing a pleased hum. 

“Lanky git,” John muttered before drifting off back into sleep.  Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.  They would have to talk about this.  Of course they would.  It was likely to get awkward.  It would likely be about feelings and such.  But Sherlock was oddly okay with that. He allowed himself to be swept under by the growing need for sleep. 

Finally peace had returned to 221B.  


End file.
